


The Dark Spirit

by adrift_me



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Blood Magic, Curses, Dark Magic, Dark!Merlin, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kind Morgana, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Sexual Tension, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 07:26:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4254564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrift_me/pseuds/adrift_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People say he is as dark as night, as silent as a shadow, as terrifying as a monster. He tortures his victims to death and his face has never been seen. The Dark Mark is the omen of his soon arrival.</p><p>One unfortunate night Arthur Pendragon, the Crowned Prince of prosperous magical Camelot, finds a small mark on his wrist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dark Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot tell you how EXCITED I am to post this work. I have spent a great deal of time writing it, polishing it and thinking about it. And I was more than excited to write dark!Merlin. I hope you will enjoy this story. Please, do let me know in the comments!

Arthur was standing at the top balcony of the Citadel, observing the grounds. Camelot was serene as never before. A mighty kingdom under the rule of a just King Uther Pendragon, a kingdom full of magic, so prosperous that no disease seemed to touch it, no poverty getting ahold of the citizens. No curse torturing it but one. The curse of the Dark Mark.

Arthur learnt out about the curse when he was six years old. He could never forget how the servants were breathing in his neck, checking his body after every bath to make sure there was no mark. And then one day, one of Arthur’s servants was found dead in his small chamber with a dark spot on his cheek. Arthur wasn’t allowed to see him, yet who could stop a sneaky boy, even if he was the Prince. Arthur watched the other servants moving the body away. The Prince would never forget the servant’s eyes. Huge and full of pure terror. His skin was so pale, as if he’d never seen the Sun before.

Since that day Arthur was determined that whoever was killing those poor people would never get to him. Arthur started mastering the sword fighting and he never said “I’m tired” as there was just one thought in his head - “He won’t take me.”

What Arthur also remembered, was Morgana’s face as he told her of the dead servant. She sat on the floor on a fluffy rug, her long black hair messy after being woken up by her brother. They sat together at the bright crackling fire and Arthur was telling Morgana what he saw with all the incredulity that a child could muster. It was then that Morgana took a sword in her hand and joined her brother at the training grounds, swearing to protect him if needed.

That night Arthur had these recollections fresh and bright, as if it happened yesterday. But in fact twenty years had passed and now he was The Crowned Prince Of Camelot, the heir to the throne. Duties were building up on his shoulders like a heavy mountain. But he could never forget that this was the day one of his servants died, leaving a tragic sorrowful scar on the Prince’s heart.

Since his perishing, many others fell. At least hundred times a year they would find or would be reported of a dead body, always the same - eyes wide in terror and their faces pale as milk. And always a strange ink-like mark on a patch of skin. Some people lived weeks with the mark, some didn’t make a day.

Arthur walked down the stairs, returning to his chambers, where a servant was laying out his polished armor. The Prince asked him to prepare a hot bath before leaving and the servant hastily walked out to get water. He sat at his desk and started looking through the rolls of parchment, not paying attention to any of them.

“Arthur?” it was Morgana’s voice, as she stood at the doorstep, leaning on one of the doors. Her brother gestured welcomingly and she joined him at the desk. Morgana was in her lace trimmed nightgown and she was beautiful as ever, Arthur thought. As she sat in front of him and reached out for his hand, she spoke, “I remembered it is the day.”

“It is,” agreed Arthur, squeezing his sister’s hand and smiling at her griefly. Morgana pressed her lips and sighed.

“Poor boy. But he wasn’t the first one. And not the last one either. Arthur, it can still happen to any of us. It happened to Agravaine...”

Arthur hurried over to squeeze Morgana’s shoulders, as she sighed again and lowered her head. Arthur’s uncle was found marked and dead in his chambers just a few weeks ago.

“Morgana, do you remember the promise we gave each other? I will protect...”

“... protect you till the end. Yes. But what are swords and fists against such a creature as the Dark Spirit? You know what people tell. Dark as the night, silent as a shadow, terrifying as a monster. Even my magic won’t stand up to him!”

“Morgana, you have nothing to fear. He won’t take us. And we will beat him with my sword and your magic,” Arthur took his sister’s hands and shook them lightly. Morgana smiled at him.

“It is late. Tomorrow the druids arrive and we must prepare,” said Arthur. He kissed Morgana’s forehead to wish her good night. She left and after her presence a light scent of sorrow stayed in the chambers.

***

When the whole castle fell asleep, candles were blown out in every chamber, Arthur Pendragon was the last person to head to bed. He let his manservant go, but before leaving he prepared a hot bath with an essence of lavender in it. Arthur stripped down his clothes, threw away his shirt and pulled off the boots. As he slowly plunged into hot water, he felt his limbs going pleasantly warm after a hard day out in the woods. It was a chilly autumn, and Arthur could think only of hot water and warm blanket that was waiting for him in bed.

He stretched in a bathtub, splashing water over his muscular legs. It ran down in tiny streams back in the tub. Arthur gently scrubbed his dirty arms and soon enough he felt rested and soothed with water.

Arthur’s heart missed a beat, when he noticed a small dirty spot on his wrist. Of course, he thought, he must have missed it while cleaning. It was right on his wrist, where he always had most of the dirt, between his gloves and sleeves of the shirt. Arthur took the sponge and rubbed the spot. It stayed there as if he’d done nothing. Arthur’s heart missed another beat and started thumping like mad as he rubbed and rubbed, with more force and adding scented water. The spot wouldn’t go.

He swallowed. He needed to calm down. Of course, he knew what it meant - he was chosen. Chosen for no particular reason, chosen because the strange logic of the curse wanted so. He had no choice but wait for his fate to be decided. And Arthur Pendragon knew only too well - whoever got the mark of the Dark Spirit never survived.

***

Arthur spent all night in hesitation, tossing on his bed. When the sun finally showed up at the horizon, Arthur jumped out of his blankets and started pacing the room. He couldn’t decide whether he should tell Morgana, whether he should tell anyone at all. He didn’t want to scare his father nor wanted he to bring Morgana to tears. The answer came like a lightning - the druids!

This was his way out. He would talk to them, as they are known to be wise people. And how luckily they were to arrive in Camelot this morning with one of the knights, who also happened to be a druid.

After the servant helped Arthur in his clothes and served him breakfast, the Prince rushed out of the castle to stand upon the majestic stone stairs and wait for the druids’ arrival. They appeared in the gateway in twenty minutes, accompanied by one of the Camelot knights, his cloak flapping in the wind as he rode a chestnut horse.

“My Lord,” he jumped down and kneeled. Arthur could hardly remember this knight, as he was sent out to druids as a teenager, having proven himself a good counsel in his young age.

“Sir Mordred,” they gave each other smiles, such as family members would give. The young man stepped away and gestured towards his companions. One of the druids stepped out and threw down the hood of his cloak.

“My name is Iseldir. We have arrived in Camelot as allies by the invitation of Uther Pendragon.”

“And you are very welcome in our castle. I will order to place you in the chambers and later you shall have dinner with the King and the Court.”

Iseldir smiled at him. “We seek no luxury, Arthur Pendragon. But we thank you for the kindness you show.”

His eyes paused on Arthur for a while longer. They were piercing, as if he could see through the Prince. He rubbed his wrist, where the mark was, automatically. The druid moved his glance away and went up the stairs, accompanied by his men and a group of servants, assigned to the druids clan.

***

As they feasted that night, Arthur’s mind was almost emptied from the bad thoughts of his mark. He laughed and drank and ate with his father by his side. He had an interesting conversation with young Mordred and he even danced with one of the druid girls, who looked so pure and innocent he could hardly take his eyes off her.

They retired late in the night, when the moon was hanging in the middle of the black deep sky. Arthur was walking slowly through the windowed hall, enjoying the breeze. He had not yet gathered all his courage to talk to the druids and he delayed this conversation till tomorrow, as they planned a horse ride through Camelot lands. Arthur’s head jerked when he heard footsteps down the hall.

“Sire!” called out Mordred, quickening his pace. His chainmail shook loudly in the silence of a half-sleeping castle. “Arthur.”

“What is it, Mordred?” asked the Prince, now turning to the knight. The druid’s eyes were gleaming in the darkness and his face was full of concern.

“If I may address you...”

“Mordred, you are free to shove all this politeness away and address me as a friend.”

“Thank you, Sire. Arthur. I am concerned about you.”

“What makes you feel that way?” asked Arthur, looking at the man curiously.

“I know you are marked,” said Mordred, glancing at Arthur’s wrist, which was hidden under a long sleeve of his embroidered shirt.The Prince held up his hand and looked at the small inky-like spot on his skin, the reminder of his inevitable death. Perhaps, Mordred noticed it when Arthur’s sleeve slid down during the conversation. “I am sorry, Sire.”

Arthur swallowed, fear crawling under his skin like cold poison. He was ready to accept death in battle but pointless dying in the arms of the Dark Spirit seemed silly.

“Mordred, you are a druid, a knight, a wise man. Do you know if there is anything that can be done to avoid the Spirit?”

“I’m afraid not, Sire. If we knew of such a cure, we would share. But we possess no such knowledge,” replied Mordred lamentably. They looked at each other and a few seconds passed in silence, when he added. “Have you yet informed the Court?”

“No. I am afraid it will be too much for my family and friends. I think it’s best they find me already dead, rather than wait for it in dread.”

“It’s a good decision, Sire. If there is anything I can do for you...”

“Thank you, Mordred. You are very kind. But I must bear this alone. Although there is something I wish to ask.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t tell anyone about what you know. Even the druids. I trust you.”

“Not a single word, my Lord,” promised Mordred with a bow.

***

The druids stayed in the castle for five days more. On the last day of their visit they signed a treaty and assigned the Court Representative of The Druids, young Mordred. As the celebrations lasted into the night, Arthur had little time to think of his fate. He drowned his fear in wine and muffled the death whisper in music and chatter.

As he was lying that night in bed, he didn’t feel or notice anything strange. He woke up abruptly from someone’s whisper. It was persistent and soft, as the leaves swish on the wind, calling out his name. Arthur crawled out of his bed as enchanted, following the whisper. He wandered around the castle, determined to find the source of this whispering, leaving his sword in his chambers. He didn’t find it unusual and kept walking from hall to hall in search of the whisperer with a passion of a hungry animal.

At last, he realized the whisper was coming from the Banquet Hall. He pushed the heavy doors opened and entered. Arthur flinched and blinked, as his mind seemed to have returned to him. He knew he was enchanted, magnetized to this place by some power. Fear was storming inside him now, making his heart beat faster.

His perfectly mastered skill of a hunter told him he wasn’t alone, even if his eyes deceived him and showed no one. Arthur slowly walked through the room, which was dimly lit with a few candles. One of the tables was served richly with meat, fruit, wine and other delicious food. There were only two plates and two goblets on the two sides of the long table.

“Feast with me,” suddenly said a low drawling voice from nowhere, as Arthur approached the table. He looked around but didn’t see anyone. There were loud tapping footsteps on the stone floor. “Sit down, please.”

Arthur’s hand darted to where his sword used to be, but he realized he left it in his chambers. He had to obey. Arthur slowly approached the chair and sat in it. Every step, every move seemed to make an incredible noise and Arthur wondered why no one heard him yet. As the Prince looked around again, searching for the enchanter, he felt someone grasp the high back of his seat.

“Arthur Pendragon. So we meet at last,” the voice, resounding at his ear, was more like a sea wave, rather than a human being’s voice. It was soothing, drawling and it beheld a dangerous, threatening air. The stranger’s face must have been close, even if Arthur couldn’t see it, as his calm breath was warming up the Prince’s cheek. Arthur swallowed.

“We don’t meet exactly, as I haven’t had the delights of seeing your face, stranger,” said Arthur. As if adhering to his words, the enchanter walked to his own seat and stared at the Prince.

Arthur bit on the insides of his cheeks. Two very diverse feelings were pulling him apart - terror and admiration. The man, who sat in front of him at the far end of the table, was breathtakingly beautiful. It seemed that whoever created this person, did a very good job, thorough and loving. The man’s features were smooth and sharp at the same time. His cheekbones were high and knife-sharp, yet his skin was pale and smooth. The stranger’s eyes were dark and intense. He was sitting relaxed on the chair, both hands placed on the armrests. Arthur admired the way his messy black hair was arranged. But apart from being beautiful, the man was terrifying. He seemed too perfect, yet he had an air of danger around himself. His whole body seemed to be nothing but a part of a shadow. His shoulders were covered with smooth long cape made of black silk.

“I am glad you find me handsome,” said the man mockingly. “But you must eat.”

“Are you the Dark Spirit?” blurted out Arthur, lifting up his chin. The man looked at him, his eyes slightly squinted.

“My reputation precedes me.”

“It does. With a lovely mark,” said Arthur in the same mocking tone as his guest.

“I am not the one to mark you, Sire. It is in Fate’s hands. I do not decide who dies or lives, I am a mere servant.”

“Then you are used. Being used is neither a pleasure nor an honour.”

The Spirit laughed but didn’t comment on it. He stood up gracefully and slowly made his way to Arthur. The Prince shifted in his chair.

“You must eat, my Lord. Allow me to pour you some wine,” the Spirit took a jug, filled with finest Camelot wine, and poured some ruby red liquid in the goblet. While he did that, Arthur admired the hands of the Spirit, that were so handsome, blanched in the darkness of the chamber.

“Why don’t you just go ahead and kill me? I have accepted my fate. Why must I humiliate myself by sitting through this dinner with you? And who prepared it anyway?”

“Too many questions, my Lord. We have a talk to talk, a discussion to discuss,” said the Spirit, moving away to take his own goblet.

“Does it mean I can ask you questions?”

“If you wish. I shall decide which ones I’ll answer.”

“Very well,” replied Arthur. He never felt more awkward. He talked to the Spirit as he’d hardly ever spoken to the court members or honoured guests. He cleared his throat and began. “Answer me this. Why are all your victims found with terror on their faces?”

“It is a simple question. They die of what they see, what they see is terror,” shrugged the Spirit.

“They see you, but I am not sure how can one die of your sight. Unless you turn into a monster.”

“I do no such thing. You shall see very soon for yourself, my Lord.”

“Good,” Arthur swallowed. He looked away for a moment before asking abruptly. “I don’t know how to address you. Do you have a name?”

“My name is Emrys.”

“Emrys. What is this talk you meant? I thought your task was to ensure my death.”

Emrys said nothing, but made a large sip of wine. He was eyeing Arthur, squinting. The Prince felt even more uncomfortable, as if the Spirit was seeing right through him. He made a sip from his goblet, hoping that poison would magically appear there. But it was just wine, good wine, and he rolled it in his mouth a bit till it bit on his tongue and left a sweetly flavour.

They sat in tense silence, which Arthur didn’t dare to break, and Emrys seemed too engaged in eyeing Arthur to talk. When his goblet was empty, he drew nearer to the Prince, throwing his cloak back. He walked around Arthur and placed his hands on the wooden carved back of the chair. He lowered his head, so that their cheeks were nearly on the same level. Arthur didn’t dare moving.

“May I take a look?” said the Spirit, moving his hand slowly and reaching for Arthur’s wrist. His fingers inched on Arthur’s skin, calmly moving upwards and rolling up the sleeve of his shirt. It revealed the dark mark.

“It’s beautiful,” said Emrys suddenly, now holding up Arthur’s hand closer, as if to study every curve of the spot. His fingers traced the mark and Arthur shivered. He heard Emrys’s low deep laughing. He let go of his hand.

“You are very special, Arthur Pendragon. All those people who perished at my hand started begging for their lives the second they saw me. And you… you accepted me. Why?”

“You are not something I can fight. Now that I have met you, I am not sure you are something I should fight,” emphasized Arthur without looking up at Emrys, whose hands were still clenching on the back of the seat.

“I am glad to have some variety,” whispered Emrys, leaning closely to Arthur’s ear. “I think I might do with some more time with you, Arthur Pendragon.”

The Prince frowned. He awaited for the Spirit’s further actions without looking at him. Cold shivers ran down his spine. Emrys was still close to Arthur’s face. He turned his head slightly and pressed lips to Arthur’s earlobe. He caught it and bit it lightly. Arthur didn’t dare moving, his eyes closed. Emrys left his ear alone and his lips, curious and studying, moved down the Prince’s neck, making a small kiss every now and then. The kisses continued down Arthur’s shoulder. Emrys took his trembling hand again and then Arthur saw his eyes gleaming gold, just like Morgana’s when she used her magic. He was amazed to see that the mark was gone from his wrist, when the Spirit let go of it.

“Good night, My Lord,” he said, burying his nose in Arthur’s shoulder and biting on his smooth skin. “But do not think you escaped from me. I shall see you very soon.”

***

When Arthur returned to his chambers, stricken and abashed, he jumped in a cold bath. His hands found the sponge nervously and he started scrubbing his body violently, rubbing on the shoulder. Hot path of kisses was burning his skin and he wished water had magical abilities to wash off his desire.

What on Earth was the Spirit playing at, Arthur asked himself. Was he a toy of some sort? He was a Prince after all, the Spirit couldn’t just come and tempt him like that. Or could he?

***

The black glossy horse clattered inside the Fortress of Ismere. Its rider was gloomy and even annoyed. His silken black cloak was flapping behind as he rode.

The horse stopped in the cold icy yard and a skinny old servant hurried to take over the reins. Emrys slid down the horse gracefully and threw his cloak aside.

He quickly walked through the entrance, his boots making loud noises in the near silence of the fortress. He strode by an armory, then passed by the knights’ chambers where female screams were heard as well as male laughter. He winced. He hated violence like this and yet he couldn’t justify his own actions as the Dark Spirit.

Finally Emrys reached a large hall with only two torches lit, which were there not for warmth or light, but for making the mistress of Ismere look impressive. Morgause sat upon her uncomfortable stone throne. Her dark red gown streamed down her long legs and Emrys had to take his eyes away not to receive a sarcastic laughter.

“Emrys, there you are. I was hoping you’ll make it to dinner,” said Morgause, rising from her throne and stepping down. “What news do you bring? How much death have you brought to Camelot?”

“As much as I could allow myself,” said Emrys. SLAP - Morgause’s hand smacked his face loudly, leaving a red mark on his cheek.

“Liar!” she screamed. “You had just one task - kill Arthur Pendragon. And you failed. You, above all, failed!”

She strode past him like a wind gust.

“My Lady, I found it necessary.”

“Explain,” she said in a softer tone, yet it had a more dangerous air than before. She slowly walked back towards Emrys and her face was an inch away from his. Emrys’s eyes were full of determination, as he spoke.

“Wouldn’t you, my Lady, want Arthur Pendragon to suffer as much as possible?”

“Go on,” she drawled with a pleased smile.

“I could get close to him. Make him think he is special, save him. And then strike,” said Emrys, looking detached. Morgause laughed shrilly, and her laughter cut the air like a knife.

“I see, a boy likes his toy,” she laughed again. “Very well, Emrys. You may have some fun. Just don’t make it too long. I can’t wait for a year to see him dead.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“And as for his death… Make it as agonizing as you can. Drown him in his own blood. And if Uther Pendragon sees it, I’ll be more than just pleased. I will reward you beyond your imagination.”

“Yes, my Lady,” repeated Emrys and bowed.

***

Arthur stood on the wide stairs, leading down to the yard. He was watching the druids clan leave, as their horses slowly clattered towards the exit gates. Soon the clatter became muffled and disappeared entirely.

“Sire,” said Mordred, making a step down and standing next to the Prince. “The druids asked me to relate you their gratitude. They say you are to become as great a King as your father.”

“I am glad to hear that,” said Arthur, turning around to face the knight. Mordred smiled at him but the smile quickly faded off his face. Arthur realized at once what thoughts appeared in his head. He was marked and he will hardly have time to become the King. But was he marked after all?

“I must tell you something, Mordred. I trust you and I wish you to know it,” Arthur pulled up the sleeve of his warm undershirt. His wrist was clean. He showed it to Mordred.

“But it is not possible, Sire. I have seen your mark. I have felt it. It was no ink spot, was it?” asked the knight incredulously, nearly grabbing the Prince’s wrist but restraining himself from doing so. Arthur pulled the sleeve down and looked back at the gates, squinting at the bright sun. He kept a pause long enough to fire anyone’s curiosity.

“I have met the Dark Spirit.”

“Sire!” exclaimed Mordred.

“Yes. Last night. He enchanted me, made me come to him. And he let me go. He used magic to wipe the mark off of my wrist.”

“Arthur, it’s great news indeed!” Mordred’s voice was going one step further in amazement. “But what made him change his decision? Why did he let you go?”

“I do not know. He said he doesn’t choose a victim, that he is a mere servant to some powers above. The curse, apparently.”

“I am glad you are cleared then, my Lord. It means the druids’ hopes are to be fulfilled.”

Arthur nodded. Something cold and unpleasant twisted in his stomach. The Spirit, Emrys, did say it wasn’t their last encounter. Was it nothing but a threat or a prediction?

***

As weeks went by, Arthur thought he would forget all that had happened to him. What with all the kingdom matters and constant visitors, contests and trainings, he thought there would be little time even to think about it. But since the night he met Emrys he couldn’t get rid of his image. He sought for him in every shadow, any man, wearing a dark cape, would make his heart tingle. Arthur even had to admit that some nights the Spirit’s imaged crawled in his mind and continued kissing him lower and lower. But nearly three months had passed and there was no sign of the Dark Spirit. At least for Arthur.

There were more deaths. About a dozen more Camelot citizens perished as time went on. There were servants and nobles among them, there were two knights as well. Uther kept his face straight, but Arthur knew how much he was worried. Morgana seemed to have been taking the news of the dead close to heart, as she was often found in tears and kept ending up in her maidservant girl’s arms. She poured her calming medicines, made by the court physician Gaius, and distracted her with talking.

As they finally got into spring, Arthur and Morgana decided to go on an all-day horse ride. Arthur’s manservant was attaching a sack with provision to his horse, while Morgana talked to the Prince.

“I am looking forward to this. Camelot lands are all in blossom and we are finally free from winter cold,” she said, smiling brightly at her brother.

“We shall have a great day,” he agreed and climbed the horse. Minutes later they were galloping out of the yard, accompanied by a small group of knights. They were quite a party, riding through the open fields, their capes and cloaks flapping behind them.

The party entered a forest and slowly rode down the trodden path. Morgana was laughing at Arthur’s stories, that he was telling her. The knights kept a look out, but even they couldn’t help chuckling at the Prince’s tales.

As they were riding, they didn’t see dark silhouettes, creeping up with them through the woods down the path. The party didn’t hear something clicking in the bushes and it gave the outlaws a huge advantage. The Prince had hardly a second to pull out his sword, that gleamed in sunlight, and stab one of the bandits, that sprang out of their hideout.

“Morgana, go!” Arthur bellowed, waving his sword and striking another bandit, who tried to pull him down from the horse. There were arrows in the air and one of them flew right into one of the knights’ back. He fell down and the bandits roared victoriously.

Arthur watched Morgana pull out her sword as well and he rolled his eyes.

The battle was going on, most of the knights stood while half of the bandits was lying on the ground, bleeding or already dead. When there were three of them left, most skilful and quick, the Prince’s heart gave a jolt of relief. They had a chance. Right at that moment he heard a heartbreaking female scream and something massive hit him in the chest. Arthur groaned, as all the breath was knocked out of him. There was another scream, then men shouting and something dark, was he fainting?, consumed him.

***

Arthur’s vision was blurred when he opened his eyes. Every movement gave him an incredible pain and voice seemed to have left him.

“Lie still,” said someone and the Prince heard unhurried steps. “You are wounded. The mace hit you right in the chest.”

“What...” groaned Arthur, finally feeling the throbbing pain in his ribs. He heard water sounds and something damp and cold touched his chest.

“I will clean your wound. Just lie still and try not to speak.”

Arthur obeyed. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t understand where he was or what happened, but he was grateful that someone was taking care of him.

An idea suddenly stroke his mind. He made an attempt to jump up, but the hand with a damp cloth was strong and it kept him in bed.

“I think I told you to lie still,” said the voice.

“I am the Prince, I am not taking your orders,” objected Arthur, wincing. The voice laughed low.

“Look at me, I am supposed to be killing you, and instead I am cleaning your wound and helping you.”

Arthur’s eyes opened and the Spirit’s face came in focus over him.

“Don’t worry. I am not going to stab you right now,” smiled Emrys. Arthur breathed out.

“Sounds very convincing and reassuring,” replied the Prince. “Why are you doing this? You could leave me to die. It would have been better this way. Less dirty job for you, you know.”

“You have been destined by the mark to die at my hand, Arthur. Hence I have to heal you first,” said Emrys and Arthur winced again, but now it was his grin, not pain, that caused it.

“What kind of a demonic creature are you?”

“I am a spirit, as you very well know.”

“You look human,” said Arthur. Emrys paused his hand, fingertips hardly touching Arthur’s chest, and looked at him.

“Do I?”

Arthur stared at the Spirit. Perhaps, there wasn’t as much human as there could be, but he had a body of a man and a human voice. The Prince’s eyes studied the Spirit’s face, now that he was so close.

Arthur was amazed to see how young the Spirit appeared. He looked hardly older than Arthur, perhaps, a few years younger. He had pale smooth skin without lines and blue eyes. His eyelids were dark, as if someone spread shadow over them, and his lips were mat.

“How old are you?” asked Arthur blankly. Emrys smirked.

“Older than I can remember myself.”

“Have you always been like this?”

“What else can I be? I was born to serve and kill,” said Emrys and Arthur could swear he distantly heard sorrow in the Spirit’s voice. Emrys continued wiping off blood from Arthur’s wound and then he moved a clay bowl to his knees.

“This will help, I promise. And then you’ll get some sleep,” said the Spirit.

“And then you will kill me,” said Arthur in the same tone as Emrys. The Spirit laughed but said nothing. He was such a mystery, he was a shadow in the lit hut, where Arthur and him were staying. While the Spirit was leaning over Arthur’s chest, the Prince had a chance to study the hut. It was tiny, dark and dirty. The brightness was coming from the fire, lit in a metal pit. A few candles were dropped here and there. There was another metal pit, though a smaller one, close to Arthur and it brought pleasant warm to his limbs.

Finally Emrys moved the water away. He held up a bowl and took some green liquid out of it. Arthur watched his fingers rub the herbs a bit. It smelled like grass and honey. Emrys took some more of the liquid and started spreading it over Arthur’s chest. Cold liquid was pleasantly soaking into the wound, dulling the pain. The Spirit’s fingers were careful and knowing, as he moved his hand to spread the medicine over the wound.

“ _Ahlúttre þá séocnes. Þurhhæle bræd_ ,” whispered Emrys, hovering his palm over the wound. Arthur suddenly felt all the pain gone from his body as if drained away. Emrys moved his hand away and rose from the stool. “”There. Now you must rest.”

As he moved to a shabby wooden table, Arthur turned his head to watch the sorcerer.

“Why are you doing this? You are neither a friend nor an ally. Not even an enemy. Who are you?”

The Spirit turned to the Prince and his face was suddenly lit with a sheepish, not at all threatening smile.

“I don’t understand,” simply said the Prince, shifting his head on the pillow. The Spirit clattered with the bowls and then returned to sit next to Arthur’s bedside.

“You don’t need to understand anything. It simply is. What I am doing and why I am not killing you on the spot is my business and mine only. My burden, if you wish. Now, there is something else I must do.”

Emrys took Arthur’s hand and placed it in his own. With the fingers of the other hand he rubbed the place where Arthur’s spot used to be. To Arthur’s terror he could see a trace of the mark, hardly visible but it was there.

“Why are you returning it?”

“Don’t be an idiot, my Lord,” said Emrys dismissively and then the Prince understood. The mark started reappearing and Emrys cleared it off again. He pressed his finger hard on Arthur’s wrist and it seemed like someone pressed sizzling hot metal on his skin. Emrys winced, his brows furrowed, and he sucked in loudly, as if hurting himself. He breathed in again and groaned. The mark was gone.

Arthur looked at the Spirit, whose skin under the eyes seemed wet with sweat. The Spirit’s eyes were gleaming gold brightly as he looked back at the Prince.

“Thank you. Even if I have no idea why you are doing this.”

“Sleep,” said Emrys after a while, placing his hand over Arthur’s forehead and sending him in the arms of Morpheus.

***

Arthur’s head hardly touched the pillow when he woke up. Bright sun was pouring richly through small windows. Herbal scent was flying inside on the wind, tickling the Prince’s nose. Arthur stirred and tried to get out of bed. There were bandages on his chest, but he felt no pain at all. He touched the dressing and remembered the previous night, when the Spirit was healing him.

Arthur looked around. No one was in the abandoned hut. It looked lonely and old, as if nobody stepped inside it for years. Yet there were fresh bunches of herbs, hanging down from the ceiling, and over one of the large metal firepits hang a kettle. Arthur came up to it and touched it. Its surface was warm.

“Hello?” called out Arthur, looking around. No answer came to him. The Prince continued walking around the hut, touching items, which seemed quite new, and avoided dark corners with webs. He returned to his bed and stretched on it.

“You woke up,” said someone to his right and Arthur jumped up again. Emrys seemed to have slid out of shadow, holding a hunted down rabbit in his hands. “I brought you some food.”

“I thought you only need to snap your fingers and food appears,” said Arthur stupidly. The Spirit snorted.

“I may be a powerful sorcerer but I’m not a cook. Though I can steal food with my magic,” he explained, placing the rabbit on the table. He looked at Arthur with a friendly smile which the Prince couldn’t return. He was tense, his muscles strained, and he was watching the Spirit cautiously. Emrys arched one brow and smirked.

After they had a small breakfast, Emrys insisted on Arthur’s lying back in bed, as he needed to continue recovering. Arthur protested, but strong hands of the Spirit forced him back on the sheets.

“What will you be doing?” asked the Prince, emphasizing the pronoun. Emrys ignored his question. He was waving his hand at the windows and doors, which magically closed. The hut slowly turned dark. Emrys lit up one of the firepits and lowered himself onto the stool next to Arthur.

“Are you going to ask me any questions?” asked Arthur, looking at the Spirit curiously.

“There is nothing I wish to know,” simply said Emrys, looking at the Prince.

“Well I have something,” nodded Arthur. Emrys nodded back to show that he was ready to listen. “What are you doing in free time? I mean, when you are not...”

“...Killing people, right. Well,” he leaned in, putting arms on his knees for support. “I do many things. I travel mostly, talk to people, trade.”

“Do you have friends?”

“No,” said Emrys at once, smiling. “I don’t need friends.”

“Lovers?” Arthur blurted out, arching his brow quizzically. Emrys laughed.

“It happens. Darkness seduces humans so easily, I need hardly move my finger for a woman or man to disrobe,” said Emrys delightedly and received an appalled look from Arthur. The Spirit leaned even closer, spreading his wide shoulders. “I need not remind you, Prince, that you fell under my charm as well.”

“You kissed me!” objected Arthur loudly.

“No, I kissed your shoulder.”

“But that’s exactly what I said!” rebelled the Prince. In a lightning-like instant Emrys was hovering over Arthur, one leg kneeled on his bed. The Prince stared in the Spirit’s eyes confused.

“Would you like me to show you the difference?” growled Emrys, breathing loudly. Arthur thought it best to defend himself till the end, even if he wanted to sink in the Spirit’s lips more than anything.

“What, you can’t stand someone resisting your charms?”

The Spirit never answered. His left hand pressed Arthur’s chest hard, pushing him in bed. The Prince felt burning warmth in his wound and then all the pain, that was still prickling distantly, was gone. Then the heat seemed to penetrate deep in his body, flooding his veins and making his heart thump fast.

“You are playing a dangerous game, when death is breathing in your lips,” spoke Emrys, his voice echoing in Arthur’s ears. He was ever so close, one hand still pressed to the Prince’s chest, another supporting him on the bed. He leaned in and pressed his forehead to Arthur’s. Their eye contact seemed to sparkle, yet neither tried to break it.

“Go on then,” said Arthur pertly, lifting up his chin and leaving less than an inch between his lips and the Spirit’s. “I’m at your disposal.”

“I prefer my pleasures begging,” breathed out Emrys and digged in Arthur’s neck with a greedy kiss. The Prince, taken aback with a sudden pleasant touch, growled, arching his body and pressing to the Spirit’s chest. Emrys sneered through kisses, quickly making his way down Arthur’s body, slowly and inquisitively. His hand, that was pressed to the Prince’s chest, moved to for more support on the bed.

Arthur grabbed Emrys’s smooth chin with a shaking hand, caught it and steadied it to plant a kiss on his lips. Their mouths parted immediately, letting each others’ tongues slide in with a smack. Their kissing was passionate, even painful as they bit on each other. Arthur moved his hand to rest on the Spirit’s neck, holding him close to himself.

He could feel the Spirit’s knee sliding between his thighs. He twitched, imagining the pleasure he was about to get. A moan, low growling sound erupted from his chest.

“Em-rys...” he groaned, gasping for breath. He could feel the Spirit smiling, holding his lips between his own. There was passion swirling down his body and he hoped that the Spirit would go on without making him suffer from desire. He may have seemed demonic, may have seemed human, but what he definitely was most was magic. His kisses made Arthur want to push his tongue further, his touches were like liquid hot metal on his skin.

Just as Emrys’s hand slid down, Arthur jerked and his name flew out of his mouth like a breath.

“Emrys, please!” he cried out hoarsely, arching his back. Emrys suddenly stopped, looking down at the Prince. There were dangerous twinkles in his eyes as he lifted himself off the man. Arthur tried to uplift himself and reach for more kisses, but the Spirit arched back. The Prince looked in his eyes and saw them sparkling with golden gleam. The Spirit smirked and slid off the bed gracefully.

“You must rest, my Lord. Your wound has not yet healed,” he said with a mocking tone. Throwing his cape over the shoulder, he left in a quick pace without any word.

Arthur breathed out and sagged back on bed. He was full of passionate thirst, his body tense and yearning for more caressing. His skin was covered with goosebumps and soft cloth of his pants strained after the Spirit’s touches. Arthur shut his eyes tight, rubbing his face, hoping that the blush would come off this way. He didn’t know how he was supposed to fall asleep now. Thoughts of finishing the job himself seemed the only option but he couldn’t stand Emrys’s reaction if he found any evidence of what Arthur did in his absence. The Prince groaned. This was what Emrys wanted - him, coming and begging. Arthur punched his pillow with a fist. Having tossed around the bed for half an hour more, suffering from the passionate memories, Arthur felt the Spirit’s charm forcing him into sleep.

***

Emrys was staring in a mirror in his chambers. To his surprise his face looked tired, though his magic was keeping his skin safe from age lines and wrinkles.

“My Lord?” spoke the voice from the room and Emrys stepped out of the dressing screen with an ornate carving. His cloak was hanging down from it along with his shirt.

Occasionally Emrys would receive a “gift” from his mistress, a handsome young man who was either stolen to work at the Fortress or came willingly, though the latter was rare. Those with good constitution were sent to the Spirit to provide him pleasure and fun.

Emrys’s eyes, sparkling with gold, glanced over the room. He saw his today’s gift, a tan tall man on his bed with silken sheets. He was sitting in a vulgar pose, waiting for his master. Usually the Spirit would delight in such looks, but that night he felt disgusted. This Prince’s taste was still in his mouth and he found himself eager to touch him more.

“My Lord,” repeated the man on his bed. Emrys felt a sting of annoyance but said nothing. He needed to forget the stupid Prince. He cared way too much for him and he had to remember it was only a game.

The Spirit slowly approached the man and he reached out with his muscular arms. Emrys sat on the edge of the bed and the nameless whore started caressing his skin and kissing him wherever the Spirit ordered. But much to his own displeasure, Emrys couldn’t enjoy it. He broke their contact and moved on his bed, waving his hand.

“You are dismissed,” he said suddenly, grabbing a wine goblet from his bedside table. The nameless man arched his brow.

“Did you not like my service, my Lord?” he asked obediently. Emrys’s eyes flashed gold and he advanced the man threateningly. The man’s chest was sliced with magic and blood started dripping down his body.

“I said you are dismissed,” he growled at him, squeezing his chin now. The man’s eyes were wide with terror. Emrys pushed him into the wall furiously. He called the guards to accompany the beaten man out and returned to his bed. The Spirit relaxed on cold silken sheets face down. What was happening to him?

***

The silence of waking was broken by-

“Arthur!” exclaimed Morgana, grabbing her brother’s hand. He blinked at her, feeling his fingers squeezed so tight, they could be broken. “I am so glad you woke up. I have been so worried!”

She kissed his fingers. Arthur reached out to touch her face.

“Morgana, what’s happened?”

“It is awful. Do you remember anything?” she asked him anxiously and Arthur shook his head. His mind was empty and he strained every gyrus of his brain to return any memories. Nothing happened but prickling on the back of his neck.

“We were attacked by bandits on our trip. They hit you with a mace and then something strange happened. Like magic,” Morgana swallowed before continuing, “It embraced you and the next instant you were gone. We looked for you for two days and this morning a horse rode in the Citadel, with you tied to its saddle. Unconscious.”

“I have no idea what happened, Morgana,” said Arthur and rubbed his forehead. Suddenly Morgana’s eyes widened and she snatched her brother’s hand for inspection.

“What is it?” she asked fussily, her nails digging in his skin. “Arthur, what is it?”

“Not now, Morgana,” he pleaded, dropping his head back on the pillow. But she didn’t let go.

“I can feel powerful magic on your wrist. But I don’t see anything, I can’t touch it. It’s just a spell, a hiding spell,” she said. Her eyes gleamed gold and she dropped her brother’s hand as if burnt. “What is it! A protection spell? But why?”

Arthur hesitated. His sister was agitated enough to tell her about the mark. And all the recollections started flooding his mind, memories of Emrys’s face in front of him and the look of his young face so close. Suddenly all his blood stormed inside at the physical memories of their last encounter. Arthur could still feel his touch over the wrist and he could swear he felt the magical spell, even though he possessed no magic whatsoever.

They were interrupted by Uther, who stormed into the chamber to check on his son. Morgana stood up at once, letting him sit, but her eyes were wide and her glance was glued to Arthur’s wrist.

***

Morgause ripped a berry off the grape bunch.

“Emrys, you look thoughtful,” she said, glancing at the Spirit. He was sitting in front of her, down the long dinner table. He held a goblet of wine, which looked like blood. “And so pale. But I must say it suits you. Such handsome features should be feared by others. I am sure women lose their minds when they see you.”

“I will not deny it,” said Emrys and made a sip of his drink. Morgause chuckled and leaned back.

“Ah yes. You have a liking to men. To a certain prince, don’t you, Emrys. Have you yet played with your little prince toy?” asked the woman, tilting her head.

“I like my pleasure stretched,” said Emrys and it made Morgause laugh.

“Good, good. But I must remind you that I am not going to wait for ages. You have a week. I am tired of Pendragons’ being alive.”

“You shall have your wish, my Lady,” Emrys gave her a small bow of head and continued sipping from the goblet. “I am close to the Prince’s heart. And when I’m there, I’ll stab it.”

“I have never doubted you, Emrys,” said Morgause and laughed with as much evil in her tone as possible.

The Dark Spirit dismissed himself to his chambers soon enough. He walked up the stone steps but passed the door to his bedroom. Instead he continued walking and in ten flights he found himself in front of a cell.

A man was hanging down the wall inside. His dark hair, messed and tangled, covered his face. Emrys’s eyes gleamed in the darkness of the night and the cell door unlocked with a loud clank. He stepped inside.

“Lancelot,” he said, coming up to the man. There was no response. Emrys came even closer and touched the man’s face. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be sleeping. Emrys sat in front of him.

He shook his head. He visited Lancelot nearly every day, talking to him. Lancelot never woke up, but he was alive, as the vein on his thin neck was throbbing and his heart was beating merely in his chest. He still remembered the day they first met. One time a young man stepped in his chambers, sent there as a gift from Morgause. His hair was long and his features were manly. He came in half naked but his face lacked any obedience or desire.

“Oh my God,” he blurted out, looking in Emrys’s face. The Spirit frowned. Not that it was an unusual reaction - after all, some men did exclaim that and their faces expressed awe and admiration. This man, however, was different. He looked relieved and surprised. He darted forward and embraced Emrys as an old friend. “I thought we’d lost you. She took you! And I thought I’d never see you again. What did she do to you?”

Emrys was speechless. He patted the man’s shoulder as they broke the embrace and stared into his face, lit up with happiness. But as Emrys said nothing, the man’s face slowly faded off.

“It’s me, Lancelot. Don’t you remember me?” he asked with a shaking voice. The Spirit could do nothing but shake his head.

“No,” mumbled Lancelot. Suddenly he grabbed the Spirit’s sword. “I’ll make them spare you!”

There was so much racket, fight and blood in the next few minutes, that Emrys couldn’t move to do something in shock. Lancelot slaughtered a few guards, screamed in rage and it was either an exceptional bravery or stupidity. By the time he reached downstairs, Morgause was warned. She captured him, shut him up in the cell with shackles on his wrists and never let anyone come in except Emrys. Since then Lancelot was dormant and silent.

The Spirit reached out and touched Lancelot’s face again.

“I’ll figure you out, whoever you are. I will.”

Suddenly Lancelot’s dim eyes opened and he stared at Emrys.

“You must remember,” he croaked, as if every single sound caused him an incredible pain. He groaned and winced, but continued speaking. “You must remember. Your name is M...”

He screamed in pain, making Emrys stand up quickly. Lancelot’s head drooped and he seemed to have fallen dormant again.

***

“... and then he magically put me to sleep,” Arthur finished telling his story about the mark and the Spirit. Morgana looked at him reproachfully.

“Why didn’t you tell me at once?” she asked, sitting at Arthur’s feet with her head on his laps. He was stroking her black long hair.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” confessed the Prince. Morgana patted her brother’s hand.

“Don’t be foolish, Arthur. We know each other so well, you didn’t need to try and hide it from me. Let me take a look again.”

For the fifth time this afternoon Morgana took Arthur’s hand and examined it closely. She casted little spells and her eyes kept flickering with gold. He didn’t know exactly what she was doing, but apparently she wanted to try and check how powerful the concealing charm was and what sort of magic the mark itself used. Unfortunately, her attempts failed every time and eventually she gave up. She kissed her brother’s hand lightly and let it go.

“What is the Spirit like?” she asked him, when they sat to dine together. Arthur avoided Morgana’s glance and stared into his plate, crammed with vegetables and meat. He could feel Morgana’s bright eyes glued to him.

“He is... ” Arthur searched for a good word. “The darkness itself. A shadow. I am not sure he is even human, but his flesh is real.”

“I can never understand why he protected you,” said Morgana, shaking her head. “The concealment spell is powerful. I can feel its vibes. He must be a powerful sorcerer.”

Arthur said nothing but simply looked at his sister. He couldn’t understand it either.

***

Later that night Arthur was sitting in his chamber in a chair next to the fireplace. It was a chilly spring night and sleep seemed to have left him. Arthur sighed and stared into the burning fire. Flames were dancing happily, making a pleasant cuddling noise.

But Arthur couldn’t sleep for some reason. His mind was wide awake and his eyes were light. He could find no explanation to it.

The Prince looked at his wrist. He could still feel its burning magical concealment, but it was much weaker than the week before, when Emrys enchanted his mark. Right now Arthur could see a hardly visible trace of the Dark Mark and he knew the spell was weakening. He rubbed the mark. As if because of his actions, the mark became more obvious.

“Good evening, my Lord,” spoke the voice and Arthur twitched. He looked around and stared into the shadowy corner of his chamber. There was no one there and an instant later a shadow itself stepped out. It formed a tall thin silhouette. Arthur could see Emrys walking up to him. He looked the same, apart from the eyes. They were gleaming gold, as if he was in process of doing magic. But Arthur didn’t see any magic happening.

Meanwhile the Spirit drew a chair closer to the fireplace and sat in it. Arthur couldn’t help admiring his graceful movements. He reminded him a predator on a hunt: dangerous, fearful and beautiful. The Spirit’s face was strangely lit up by the fire, it roughened his smooth features and made his cheekbones look even more prominent and sharp than usual.

Emrys glanced at the fire and his eyes gleamed gold brighter. The fire diminished, leaving the room illuminated with red embers.

“Your darklordship prefers obscurity?” smiled Arthur. Emrys laughed.

“Darkness is my only true ally. It is my companion and friend.”

“A lover?” added Arthur before he could stop himself. Emrys smirked at him. Blush crept down Arthur’s cheeks.

“Perhaps. Darkness is what I live with. It haunts me.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Arthur, turning his body to Emrys. “I keep asking myself why I am still alive. What makes me different from all those people you assassinated?”

“I have already told you that it’s my business and not yours. Your business,” said Emrys, getting to his feet and stepping to the Prince, “is to do as you are told.”

“You can’t talk to me like that,” protested the Prince. Emrys smirked and glanced sideways at Arthur.

“You will do as you are told, my Lord, if you wish to stay alive,” he whispered. Arthur’s eyes flickered with rage and confusion. His hand slowly moved to the sword, standing at his chair. He grasped its smooth heavy handle. The sword flickered in the dim light of the fire, but the moment Arthur could strike, the Spirit disappeared from the chair. He appeared in the shadow at the curtained window, sliding out. He laughed.

“Put your sword down, Arthur. There is no need in using it,” insisted Emrys. But Arthur was too determined to strike him rather than listen to him. He darted forward and waved his sword. It swished through the air with a loud whistle, but Emrys was gone again, now appearing from behind Arthur’s bed. His face was no longer stretched in sneer, now it was full of determination and even exhaustion, as if a child kept nagging him to play.

“Arthur, stop it. If you don’t listen, you might not survive another dawn.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I am warning you!” he exclaimed, approaching the Prince. Arthur roared and pushed Emrys away. The Spirit backed to the fireplace but managed to stop right at it. His golden eyes lit up like two flames and the last burning embers  faded off in the hearth. The Spirit gazed at the Prince and after another eyes’ gleam Arthur felt himself bound. Chains sprang out of nowhere and surrounded his body, digging in his skin. He dropped the sword, as slithering metal binds encircled his hands.

“You’ll know better than to challenge what you don’t yet understand, Sire,” said Emrys sternly. Arthur tried moving and freeing himself from the metal strain. He was thrown back in his chair and he’d never felt more powerless and humiliated. Emrys approached him and bent down, staring in Arthur’s blue eyes with his golden ones. “You must thank me on your knees for saving your life, Prince.”

His voice turned into whisper.

“Your fate is not even in my hands and I dare interfering to save your arse.”

“What are you talking about?” Arthur fought off, turning his face away from Emrys, who leaned in even closer.

“Your fate, Arthur, had always been in the hands of others. Of those who don’t wish you good.”

“And you are one of them,” spit the Prince. Emrys moved his head on Arthur’s level, their noses just two inches away. The prince’s face relaxed slightly but he kept gazing in the Spirit’s eyes. They gleamed with fire in the darkness of the night. It seemed that if you gave them a moment, they will burn you and they’ll sparkle like a raging fire. The Spirit leaned in hesitantly, leaving a tiny space between their faces.

“You must trust me, Arthur. I cannot tell you what my intentions are. But if you don’t trust me, you will die,” he said, tangling his fingers with Arthur’s. The Prince felt the heat of his hand. As if familiar with every patch of his skin, the Spirit touched a spot where the mark was now fully visible. Arthur felt the metal strands slither away. Emrys looked at him and suddenly the cool mask was gone, replaced with concern and care. The Prince thought it even scarier. Emrys lifted his hand and pressed his wrist to his lips. His eyes gleamed even more, if possible. The mark was gone.

“There,” whispered Emrys. They looked at each other and Emrys moved away, but the Prince grabbed his hand and made him pause. The Spirit’s flesh was hot and it didn’t correspond with the colour of his face: pale and ghostly.

“Why are your eyes always gleaming? I know magic, your eyes are supposed to fade,” asked Arthur, holding the Spirit’s hand tight. Emrys smiled at him and it was a kind smile, not his usual sneer. His eyes avoided the Prince’s gaze. Arthur’s mind suddenly clicked as all the pieces came together. Emrys’s eyes were gleaming constantly now because he didn’t end the enchantment, he held it for weeks.

“Wait. Are you doing this? Are you...” he wavered before saying it. “Are you protecting me? Hiding me?”

“I will protect you, Arthur. This is what I must do,” said the Spirit, squeezing the Prince’s hand. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to Arthur’s fingers again, leaving wettish spots on them.

“But I don’t understand. From who?”

“This I cannot tell you, Sire,” said the Spirit. They looked at each other for a while and Arthur felt a wave of gratitude towards the strange dark creature. All these darkness was nothing but a pretence, as he understood now, but what led him to it? Before Arthur could ask anymore questions, the Spirit let his hand go and slid into the shadow, disappearing.

***

The cell, where Morgause kept Lancelot captive, felt cold and unwelcoming. Not that such a place should be hospitable and embracing, thought Emrys, entering the chamber. By Emrys’s plea Morgause softened his sufferings and let Lancelot sit on the stone floor rather than hang from the wall with his hands cuffed to it. As the Spirit approached the man, he croaked and looked up at him.

“You are here,” he uttered and a smile lit up his exhausted haggard face. Emrys returned him a smile and sat next to him on the floor. Lancelot tried to reach out for the Spirit’s shoulder, but the length of his chain didn’t let him do that. It clanked loudly, as the thick metal links touched the floor.

“I asked to have you let go off the wall,” said Emrys blankly. Lancelot coughed but smile didn’t leave him.

“Thank you, my friend. You have always been kind.”

“What do you mean?” frowned the Spirit. He was sure that in his entire life he’d never met Lancelot properly, apart from the cell and his bedroom.

“You must remember,” said the man again in an insistent tone. His dark eyes stared at Emrys. “Your name.”

“What are you talking about? My name is Emrys and I remember it very well,” protested the Spirit.

“She brainwashed you too,” laughed Lancelot with a bitter sorrow. “But I will tell you. I don’t care how much her silence spell will hurt me, I won’t allow you to continue doing what you are doing. Emrys is not your real everyday name. It’s the name of your magical side. But altogether, magic and human, you are called differently.”

“What is it?” asked Emrys, leaning in to the man, who held up his chin.

“Your name is...”

There was a loud BANG and Emrys felt a powerful magical vibration run through his body. Only his own magic stood a chance against it and it was the only reason he didn’t smash into the wall. Lancelot, on the other hand, hit the wall stones. Emrys looked around.

“I thought you’d keep your mouth shut, Lancelot. I spared your life. And is this how you repay me?” asked Morgause. She was standing in the doorway and her dark teal gown was flapping on the magical wind. Emrys couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she was in rage. Her blond hair whipped her gentle face and her huge eyes glared at Lancelot. He glared back at her, spitting blood. Dark red liquid streaked out of his brow.

“I am not afraid of pain or death. And not of you.”

“How brave!” retorted Morgause. Her hand darted forward as if eager to grab Lancelot’s throat. He croaked as if losing his breath. “You won’t say a ...”

But what exactly he won’t say they never heard. Emrys stood up and with a glance of his gleaming golden eyes he threw Morgause away into the hall. He had only seconds before she would regain her consciousness and he kneeled next to Lancelot. Emrys held him tight, one hand over the shackles. He whispered something and the shackles fell apart. The Spirit felt a painful wave run through his body and he realised that Lancelot was enchanted to keep silent and weak.

“Listen carefully, we have seconds. I will help you out of the Fortress...”

“No, don’t. Just remember this,” Lancelot looked right into Spirit’s eyes before saying, “Your name is Merlin. Remember it and never ever forget. Your name will guide you. And the Prince will be your light.”

With this Lancelot breathed out and fainted. Emrys took his body gently. He felt tears streaming down his cheeks and it felt too human for years of his magical existence. Everything stopped making sense suddenly. Apparently, there was another life, snatched from him, his own name stolen. What was his existence for, what purpose did he kill all those people for?

Emrys wiped tears off his face and lifted Lancelot up. Holding him tight he blasted out the window bars and jumped out. Using his magic he hovered down behind the Fortress walls and landed on the snowy grounds. His horse was tied up inside and he had to hurry to take Lancelot away as well as himself.

When he managed to unsuspiciously get his black horse and one more, the chestnut one, out of the Fortress, he placed Lancelot’s thin body over it. And then he felt it.

A power beyond anything he’d felt before. It was calling him, screaming inside his head, pulling him apart. His magic was fighting against it, but it was feeble against the spell, tying him up to his enchantress. It pulled him back, as if a hook was attached to his collar.

“I’m sorry, Lancelot,” gasped Emrys. He quickly glanced at the horse, casting a guiding spell, and patted the horse lightly. It neighed and galloped away. The Spirit had nothing left to do but mount his own horse and ride back inside to face Morgause.

***

Arthur stood at the mirror looking at his reflection. He didn’t recognize himself. His features were distorted with exhaustion and grief. Arthur’s servant appeared behind the dressing screen and helped the King with his bright red cloak.

Uther Pendragon died two days ago and Arthur had been crowned The King Of Camelot. Fear and despair poisoned his mood. He saw his people cheering up, but he himself couldn’t smile sincerely. He realized that even if the Spirit truly intended to protect him, he wouldn’t be able to do this for his entire life. The King suspected he had only a few months left of his reign till the Dark Spirit comes and takes his life or another force to replace its disobedient dark servant.

He never doubted it happening. Whatever the Spirit said, however truthful his eyes seemed, Arthur couldn’t believe his promises. The Spirit himself said that he was not a judge of those who were to live and die. Therefore how could he protect Arthur? And why?

Arthur shook his head, looking into the mirror. The faceless servant disappeared from his sight. Arthur winced. His day was scheduled fully already and he had to get down to his duties even if his death was breathing in his neck.

“When death is breathing in your lips...” suddenly a phrase, said by the Spirit, popped in his mind. Arthur grimaced. The passion was gone but he was ready to pay dearly to have the Spirit’s lips on his own right now. The King was sure that through their small encounters he had managed to see the Spirit’s true nature. Under the mask of a cold-blooded murderer was someone else, kind, caring and maybe not so threatening. And Arthur’s heart clenched - he wanted to protect this creature back.

When Arthur went down to the training ground, he heard shouting of his knights, a galloping horse and more shouting again. He ran to see what happened. As he quickly joined his men, he bumped into Leon, one of his most trustful knights.

“What’s happened?” asked the King, pushing his men lightly to make way. Leon followed him and muttered in his ear.

“A horse galloped on the training grounds. With a nearly dead man tied to it.”

“Is there any note with him?” asked Arthur, looking concerned.

“We found nothing. He can barely speak, but he keeps muttering someone’s name. “Merlin, Merlin,” he says,” said Leon.

“Somebody call for Gaius!” shouted Arthur and one of the knights detached from the crowd of red and silver. The King approached the man, who was untied from horse and lowered on the ground. He was bleeding, his head lolled hopelessly to the side. Arthur kneeled next to him and touched his forehead. It burned with fever of a dying man.

As soon as Gaius came down, he ordered the man brought up to his chambers. They lifted him and moved to the physician’s chambers on stretchers. While they were walking up, Arthur studied the man’s face. It was very thin, as if he hardly had food to eat. His hair was very long and tangled with leaves and dirt in its strands. There were blood red scars on his wrists and Arthur recognized them as shackle scars.

“Gaius, what do you think happened to him?” asked Arthur, catching up with his physician.

“I don’t know, Sire. But he does look as death itself.”

“Make sure you treat him. If we can help him, it’s our duty to do so.”

“Of course, Sire,” replied the physician.

Arthur slowed down as he saw Morgana run down the castle stairs towards her brother. Her jewelry clanked loudly, jewels and metals hitting.

“What’s happened?” she cried, finally reaching him.

“A horse rode in the training grounds with this man tied to it,” explained Arthur. Morgana put a hand over her mouth in horror. “Don’t worry. I am sure Gaius will bring him back to good state as soon as he can. The man is alive.”

“Good,” said Morgana without a smile.

That night Arthur visited Gaius’s chambers, which smelled intensely with herbs. The injured man was lying in a tiny attached chamber at the far side of Gaius’s quarters. The physician was sitting at the low bed, spreading liquid over the man’s wounds.

“How is he?” asked the King, stepping inside.

“I’m glad to say he will recover, Sire. He is strong, but he must have been tortured. Shackles, hunger, occasional drubbing. It's amazing he even survived the journey. Whoever tied him to the horse either sent him to his death or to his only chance to be saved.”

Arthur sat on a small stool at the bed. Gaius rose.

“I need to get some herbs in the stockroom,” and he left, clattering with little bottles.

Arthur drew his chair closer to the man and looked at him. To his surprise, the man’s eyes opened and he stared at the King. Arthur smiled at him kindly.

“Who are you?” asked the man.

“My name is Arthur Pendragon,” replied the King. The man’s eyes opened widely and he started muttering something incomprehensible. Arthur pressed his hand to the man’s chest and pushed him back on the pillow. “You must rest.”

“Arthur, there is no time to lose. You must save Merlin. He is in danger,” said the man quickly and to Arthur’s horror fresh blood streaked out of his mouth. The man coughed but kept saying the same words.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know any Merlin,” said the King, still pressing his hand to the man’s chest.

“He goes by the other name,” the man coughed more and his voice turned into wheeze. Injuries, that Gaius healed with ointments, started bleeding again. Arthur didn’t know what to do and how to stop it. The man continued talking. “You know him as Emrys, but his name is Merlin. Save him! The Cup of Life is binding him. You must rescue him!”

The man started choking and gasping for air. He screamed shrilly, as if someone hurt him. Gaius appeared on the threshold and hurried to calm the man down.

“Arthur, don’t ask him anything. It’s magic, he is enchanted to be silent.”

But Arthur couldn’t even hear his physician. He felt his ears stuck, all sounds muffled. Now that he knew something else about the Dark Spirit, everything else mattered less.

“Ismere,” wheezed the man and his head lolled unconsciously, blood dripping from his mouth. Gaius reached out to touch his throat.

“I’m sorry, Sire. I fear he is dead.”

***

A thick chain swished through the air and hit a pale body. It had already been scarred heavily, blood streamed down the muscles from a large wound on the man’s chest. He wheezed. The chain swished again, ripping the air, and slashed another cut across the body. It hardly stirred, even though it was suspended in the air by two leather straps.

“So you wish to disobey me, Emrys,” said Morgause sweetly, coiling the blood stained chain on her hand. She dropped it and it hit the ground with a clank that echoed through the cell. Morgause slowly approached the Spirit, who looked at her with hatred.

“I’d rather die now than murder anyone else. I had little pleasure anyway,” spit the Spirit.

“Indeed? I thought you were quite enjoying it,” said Morgause, smiling at her captive. He stared back bravely. “Emrys, don’t try and fool me. You are a creature of darkness, of lust and bloodlust. You above all dead and living will enjoy murdering others.”

“I am not what you think I am!” yelled Emrys, pulling on the leather strap, which was tied to his wrist. “I know I am a human being! And you turned me into a monster.”

“We can think of it later, Emrys. Tell me something else. Why are your eyes gleaming?” she asked him and caressed his face with dangerous delicacy. Her fingers moved down quickly, pulling down the blood from his face till it met with blood on the Spirit’s chest. He jerked his head and his body twitched. Morgause laughed, throwing her head back a little. “Oh, I see!”

He stared at her with even more hatred if possible. Morgause looked at him with a mocking, surprised expression.

“It’s this Prince toy, isn’t it. You are protecting him! How smart, Emrys. But not smart enough for you. You know only too well that I will crush him myself, just give this boy to me. I will rip his heart out,” Morgause rolled the sounds in her mouth as a lioness, savouring how they sounded. Emrys growled at her. “Don’t get angry, Emrys. I know you’d like the enjoyment like this to yourself. Why, I can give it to you! After all, you have always been my faithful servant.”

She snapped her fingers and the leather straps were torn. Emrys fell with a thump.

“What are you going to do?” he murmured, his head down.

“I think our strong bond has given way,” she explained. The sorceress held her hand high up as a gesture and one of the servants, hiding in the darkness of the cell, hurried to her with a large cup. A few drops of blood were on its bottom. Morgause pulled out a jeweled dagger and sliced Emrys’s hand. He let out a groan of pain, but the woman never cared. She dropped some of his fresh blood in her Cup and started muttering the spell.

“No!” screamed Emrys, recognizing the words of the spell. But it was too late. Morgause’s eyes flickered in the shadowy cell and Emrys screamed. When his tortured yells stopped, he was standing straight, his head low. And as he looked up at his mistress, his eyes gleamed blood red.

***

Arthur was hurrying down the stairs, his armor clattering loudly. Morgana ran down behind him and he turned his torso to address her.

“We will ride immediately. I will take my men and we will take over Ismere.”

“Arthur, this is madness!” cried Morgana, pulling on her brother’s arm.

“My Lord!” a new voice sounded across the yard. Arthur noticed Mordred hurrying to them, hand resting on the handle of his sword. He stopped near them, panting. “I heard you talking of Ismere. I strongly advice you, Sire, to make a good plan before leaving.”

“I appreciate your help, Mordred, but this is an immediate matter,” said Arthur dismissively, having no wish to be interrupted. But the druid knight didn’t let go.

“Sire! May I suggest you meeting the druids first, before attacking the Fortress?”

“Why?” Arthur paused.

“My Lord, is this because of Emrys?” suddenly asked the knight. Arthur looked in his eyes and nodded. Mordred leaned in. “Then you must visit the druids. You must hear something. It may be your key to saving him.”

“You knew he needs saving?” yelled Arthur enraged. Mordred took a step back.

“I only heard stories. But as you mentioned Ismere, all pieces came together in my head.”

Morgana squeezed her brother’s shoulder. “Arthur, maybe he is right? It won’t hurt to visit the druids, they are wise men.”

“We will lose days,” mumbled the King. Mordred took courage of patting his King’s shoulder.

“But it will give us chance to prepare.”

“Very well. We ride immediately,” succumbed Arthur.

“I’m coming with you,” said the lady, but Arthur stopped her by squeezing her shoulders.

“Morgana, please, return inside. I will see you as soon as I come back,” Arthur looked at her lovingly. She shook her head but he turned away. His horse was already prepared. He mounted it and looked at his sister one last time before spurring the horse. It neighed and stood on its hind legs before running out of the Citadel yard. A group of devoted knights followed their King out. Morgana groaned with disappointment. That night she had a nightmare, so blooded, so painful that it was no good sign. She pressed her bright red lips. If her brother was to die, he wouldn’t die alone, she thought.

***

Arthur didn’t let his men rest till it became so dark that they couldn’t proceed. They settled on a silent clearing in the forest. Percival started the fire and hang a pot over the flames. Elyan stood on a look out with a torch at the far side of the clearing, walking back and forth from time to time.

Arthur sat on a log, staring into the fire. His mind was swarming with thoughts, and the more he sank in them, the darker they turned. He had heard of the Fortress of Ismere. A fearful torture fortress full of dark magic that was ruled by a sorceress, Morgause. She concealed her castle well and hardly anyone ever returned alive. Yet she never interfered in other kingdoms. Until now, Arthur thought.

“Sire,” said Mordred calmly, placing his hand on the King’s shoulder. The knight sat next to Arthur and looked in his eyes. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, Mordred. Thank you.”

The knight looked around and then leaned in to the King, whispering to him. “What have you told the others? They seem to have no clue of why we are going to Ismere.”

“And do you?”

“I know that you’d want to protect a man in trouble.”

Arthur exhaled. “I have never been to Ismere. So many rumours, hard to tell where the truth ends and lies starts.”

“I have been there once, Sire,” said Mordred silently. Arthur gaped at him.

“But what matters did you have there? As far as I’ve heard it’s a dark magic stronghold, a place of misery, pain and despair.”

“I have been there just once, when I was a boy. Morgause collected many little boys from the villages. She stole me from the druids’ camp. We spent a night in the cell without water and with a mouldy piece of bread. Then she chose one of them and let the rest go.”

“Just like that?” asked Arthur incredulously. Mordred smiled.

“One can never guess what is in her head.”

They chuckled. A sudden crack of a broken twig made Arthur raise his hand to prevent any more talks. The knights fell silent, listening in to more noises.

A figure stumbled out onto the clearing, a figure draped in a dark teal cloak, leading a horse behind. A chainmail flickered in the light of the moon and fire.

“Morgana!” exclaimed Arthur both enraged and relieved. “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t leave you,” said the woman, letting go of the horse’s reins and throwing her cloak back. She had her hair braided tight and her breast was covered with a chainmail. She threw her arms around her brother’s neck. “Remember? We protect each other till the end.”

He smiled, burying his nose in his sister’s shoulder.

***

Arthur was the first to enter the druids’ residence. It was a relatively large settlement, consisting of many houses, fields and a small castle. To their right there was a market, to their left - shacks and huts. Small children were running around, their bright coloured cloaks flapping behind them like bizarre wings. The adult druids were seeing to their crops, feeding the cattle, chatting quietly to each other or teaching their children magic. Arthur dismounted the horse. Iseldir, the druids’ leader, was walking up to him, his arms spread wide.

“My Lord,” he spoke and, approaching, bowed. Arthur smiled at him. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your early visit?”

“I need to have a word with you, Iseldir,” said Arthur. He heard his knights and Morgana walking up to them from behind. “About Ismere.”

Without a word Iseldir gestured to follow him in the small castle. The group of knights, Arthur and Morgana followed him. The castle had a large hall, where, as Arthur supposed, banquets and meetings were held. They all sat at a large oak table.

Iseldir looked at him gravely, smile slowly faded off from his face.

“There is a battle coming, Arthur Pendragon. And you are the one to lead it. This is what the prophecy says,” said Iseldir mysteriously.

“What is this prophecy you mean?” asked the King attentively. Iseldir waved his hand in the air.

“The druids have long mastered the art of prophecies. We have used the crystals from the Crystal Cave to predict the future. Many seers were able to see a young king upon his throne with the most powerful sorcerer of all by his side. Yet when the time of this sorcerer drew nearer, he was nowhere to be seen.”

“Do you mean to say that someone interfered?” asked Arthur, glancing at Morgana, who was also listening in closely. She returned him a quick look, full of anxiety.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“And it has something to do with the Dark Spirit?” Arthur’s voice was careful. Iseldir looked at him with a sad smile.

“It has all to do with the Spirit. You have met him, haven’t you?”

Arthur nodded.

“I can feel it. His magic has left a strong trace on you. The Dark Spirit protects you even if he is no longer himself,” Iseldir smiled again.

“Some days ago a man arrived in Camelot. He delayed the information about the Cup of Life. Do you know anything about it?” inquired the King.

“Indeed. The Cup of Life has been stolen from the druids half a century ago. By Morgause.”

“What powers does this cup possess?” asked Arthur carefully, feeling cold shivers running down his spine.

“The Cup of Life can heal anyone, bring them back to life. But under dark magic it can be a powerful weapon of destruction. It can create an immortal army. But...” Iseldir paused. “I have heard that the most powerful sorcerers can use the Cup to bring darkness to this world by creating a target and a bond. They cast darkness using a curse.”

The Camelot visitors looked around. Morgana touched her brother’s arm lightly, her eyes large. Yet there was no fear. The King was glad to see that his friends, his knights, were eager to rid their lands of the curse. He could see it in their eyes, in their hardened features.

“So Morgause is holding the Cup of Life, which is binding darkness to my kingdom. But who is the so-called bond?”

“I am sure you can guess it yourself, my Lord.”

“The Dark Spirit?” he asked heavily and Iseldir nodded. Arthur lowered his head, staring onto the carving in the edge of the table. It was etched with runic symbols and elegant natural patterns. Arthur pressed his lips.

“We must do something,” he said. “We must penetrate the fortress, destroy the Cup of Life and… dispose of the bond, the Spirit.”

“You are a brave King, my Lord. But be careful, for not all is as clear as it seems. There is something I might help you with. The Cup of Life. It will not be an easy quest, Arthur Pendragon. It will be guarded and protected by many enchantments. Never give in. Remember what reason you have to go on fighting. And let it be your light.”

***

As the King, Lady Morgana and the knights traveled towards the Fortress, the landscape started changing immediately. Thick warm forests were replaced by a snowy desert. Birds chirping stopped soon and they could hear wolves howling in the distance. The moon had swam out onto the sky, drowning the lands in its light. In the end, they reached a high rough cliff and paused to admire the fearful view.

The Fortress of Ismere dominated the rocky rough lands surrounding it. A small frozen lake was beside it, sparkling in the midnight moon. Arthur was standing on the edge of a cliff, fascinated by the new lands. He could see smoke coming out of the fortress and there were one or two sledges, pulled by a wolf team.

“Ismere?” asked Leon, riding up to Arthur’s side.

“Yes,” said Arthur heavily, unable to add anything.

“We are riding to our deaths,” said Gwaine, eyeing the fortress gloomily. “But it’s for a fair reason, and so we must.”

“It is,” mumbled the King and spurred his horse to ride down the cliff to the right.

It seemed that magic itself created a completely different climate here. It was much colder than in Camelot, and the two kingdoms were only a few days of ride apart. There were crows and wyverns, hovering high in the air, looking out for food in these hungry lands.

The knights, Morgana and the King dismounted and left their horses in a small patch of a pine forest. They made their way across the icy desert without a word, only their swords clanking loudly. Morgana cast a spell and her eyes gleamed in the darkness dangerously.

“It will conceal us for a while,” she murmured before following her friends. Arthur was full of appreciation.

The King kept staring at the dark castle, towering over them. He wondered what they would face there, what horrors they would see. Any man, who stepped inside Ismere, never returned. They’ve heard many tales of the Dark Fortress, about Morgause and her faithful servants. But nobody ever knew that the Dark Spirit was at her disposal like a puppet.

Who was he? Arthur asked this question so many times during these days, that an answer seemed impossible to ever be found. But he couldn’t stop thinking. Emrys was a man once. Even though he was nothing but a shadow now, he used to be a real human being named Merlin. Did he have friends? Was there a family to miss him?

“Arthur, we must find a good cover,” suggested Leon, when the group approached the walls of the fortress. There were lookouts on every corner and on every wall, their bows stretched and ready to strike any second. Torches lit the stone walls, creating ghostly silhouettes.

Arthur gestured to his men to split. Morgana followed him closely, as they creeped against the wall, their swords ready to go in fight.

“Do you have any idea where we are going to find Emrys?” whispered his sister. Arthur shook his head, but it wasn’t visible to Morgana. “Arthur?”

“We’ll find him, I know it. Emrys helped and protected me. I must repay the debt. He deserves better than serving the darkness.”

“I knew you are a hero, Arthur,” whispered Morgana again after a short pause. “But I never knew you can be in love like this.”

He felt his ears blush. Warmth wrapped his heart. Perhaps, there was indeed something stronger, than bravery, guiding him towards the Spirit.

They continued crawling against the wall, hiding their swords from the flickering moonlight. Morgana gasped suddenly. Arthur turned around to check if she was alright.

“I can feel it. It’s so powerful! Arthur, I think I can find the way to the Cup,” she murmured, eager to lead her brother. He prevented her, holding out a hand against her front.

“Morgana, we must not rush. Careful,” they slowed down even more and sneaked in one of the servant passageways. The stairs were unlit and silent. Arthur turned to Morgana and she squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

“I know where the Cup is, I can feel its power. But it’s somewhere deep. Probably, in some vault. I can feel something else there, something powerful.”

“This must be the protection Iseldir mentioned,” supposed the King. He looked at his sister thoughtfully. The last thing he wanted was to lead her right in the danger’s claws.

***

Morgause was standing over the Cup, gazing on the red liquid.

“There they are,” she spoke calmly and pleased, feeling the presence of intruders. “This Lancelot boy did his work well. I will let his spirit go in peace. Not that you care anymore.”

The sorceress turned around, facing her captive. The Dark Spirit was standing calmly behind her, one hand on the handle of his sword. His cloak was draped on his right shoulder, covering his chest. His face was paler than ever and his eyes gleamed dark red. He smiled and bloodlust touched his every feature. Morgause laughed at her creature, whose sight pleased her so much.

“Why don’t you stay and protect our treasure, Emrys. Don’t let anyone stop you if you have a strong desire to kill,” she said sweetly, brushing Emrys’s face with her long fingers. She quit the vault, leaving the Spirit with his sword atilt.

Morgause walked up the stairs swiftly. Men in dark chain mails and fur outfits were joining her, and by the time she’d reached the yard, there was a company of a few dozen men. They waved their axes and swords dangerously, sneering at the intruders.

“Slice them down,” ordered Morgause, standing in the entrance of her fortress. her warriors laughed and advanced on the intruders. The knights were pushed in the center of the yard.

In a blink of an eye the battle commenced. Swords flickered in the moonlight, people screamed, some falling dead, some clenching their wounds and moaning on the stone floor. The knights reacted quickly to attacking warriors, hitting them back and slicing them down.

Morgause watched the battle with a smirk and disappeared in the shade of the fortress.

***

Arthur was following Morgana hurriedly down the stairs. They wandered through the dark long halls, wincing as the captives and slaves were moaning behind the shut doors. There was an unpleasant smell in the air, rotten and metal. Morgana kept pausing, stricken by the power of the Cup. Together they reached long stairs and quickly ran down, their swords atilt. In the end of the staircase they faced large oak doors with massive bronze handles. Arthur pushed his sister away from them.

“I will go alone,” he insisted and received a vigorous shaking of head from her.

“No. I am coming with you,” protested Morgana.

“Morgana, he is a powerful dark spirit. I don’t want you hurt.”

“I will protect you! I have magic. Remember, magic and sword together?” she cried. Arthur hesitated.

“Just please. Don’t do anything stupid.”

She smiled at him, tears streaming down her face.

***

On the first glance the vault seemed empty. The only light source was a torch on the far side of the stone room, its dim light falling upon a pedestal with the Cup. Arthur looked around carefully, he knew only too well that there would be a trap - it couldn’t be so easy.

The King made a few careful steps forward, while Morgana stood in the entrance, backing him. There was a strong gust of wind of the protecting spell and Arthur felt himself flying off into the wall, his armored back hitting the stones painfully. He gasped, breath knocked out of his lungs, and scrambled to his feet. Morgana was lying unconscious on the floor.

“Emrys?” he called out, feeling more confident. With the Spirit’s presence he was certain to have a stronger support.

He saw the shadow itself detach from the wall and form in a shape of the Spirit. He seemed heavier, more impressive as he did so. Arthur admired his sensual figure, partly draped in a silken cape.

“Arthur,” replied the Spirit inquiringly. He hurried to his ally and stood close to him. “You have found me.”

“I have,” Arthur’s voice trembled, much to his own surprise. Sudden warmth and concern towards the poor captured human enveloped his heart and drowned his whole being. He reached out and placed his hand over the Spirit’s cheek, caressing it. “I thought I might be late. This man, who arrived in Camelot, he told me about you, that you were in danger.”

“It’s gone now, Arthur,” said Emrys kindly, placing his own hand over Arthur’s.

“The Cup… We must destroy the Cup!” suddenly remembered the King. His gaze turned to the Cup on the pedestal, it’s careful curve flickering in the light of the torch. Emrys drew his attention back by catching his chin and planting a gentle kiss on the King’s lips. Arthur replied him, savouring mouth of the Spirit.

“Arthur!” suddenly cried recovered Morgana. In a split second the King heard a sword being pulled out and he had an instant to block the blow from Emrys.

“What are you doing?” he asked, defending himself.

“Did I not mention how much I enjoy playing with my victims?” sneered the Spirit, his eyes gleaming blood red now. He threw his hand towards Morgana, who tried to use magic to save her brother, and she flew off from his spell to the wall and slid down unconscious.

“Moreover,” continued Emrys, plunging on the King with his fine sword with golden plates and etched symbols, “I am more than sure I have answered your question why my victims die terrified. Here is the answer, my Lord. Humans fear betrayal.”

His tone was so mocking, his words so painful, that it made Arthur roar. He was terrified, no question. But more than that, he was willing to destroy Morgause who obviously affected Emrys’s state.

While dancing in a sword fight with Emrys, Arthur could see his sister standing in the entrance. To his horror another figure appeared in the vault, her face stretched in a hungry sneer.

“Stand aside, girl,” she made a dismissive gesture in the air, but at that moment Arthur saw Morgana’s eyes flicker gold and Morgause’s spell bounced off her magical shield. Morgause looked at her with deep interest, making a step closer. “Ah, the girl has magic. Let’s play, shall we?”

Arthur had a problem concentrating on his own fight with the man he didn’t want to hit and watching his dear sister resisting a powerful sorceress. The King saw Morgana use magic so many times, but it had always been for good, healing spells or other useful ones. She rarely used her gifts to oppose to someone and prefered her sword to it in battles. But now she was her power itself. Her hair loosened, now whipping round her face. There were bright sparkles and magical wind gusts, as Morgana threw out her hand and attacked Morgause. She was teasing the evil sorceress and it enraged her more and more. The moment Arthur blocked yet another attack from Emrys, he heard Morgause yell a long growling spell but it was interrupted by Morgana’s.

“ _Hleap on bæc_ ,” she yelled. Her spell was so powerful that it threw Morgause off to the wall. Morgana gasped with a smile and her knees gave way. Arthur looked at her pitifully. He wanted to dart to his sister, but emrys was unstoppable in his attacks and it was a more oppresing matter. He knew Morgana will be fine.

They fought for life and death, their swords hitting each other and sending sparks in all the directions. Emrys attempted more mocking, but Arthur ignored him, trying to make his way to the Cup. And suddenly it dawned on him…

“Emrys!” he cried. “This is not your name.”

“Why it very well is. I have no other name to go by. In fact,” he said, hitting Arthur angrily, “people fear me by the name of the Dark Spirit. Have you seen their faces when I drown them in their fears and watch them die?”

“Stop it! You are not what you think you are. Just let me get to the Cup and I will free you.”

“I’m already free!” laughed the Spirit. Arthur breathed in as deep as he could before crying out.

“Merlin!” yelled the King, looking straight into the Spirit’s eyes. “Your name is Merlin!”

The time paused. He could literally feel it freeze. Arthur stared at Emrys. His face was pale and his eyes were wide. His short hair was whipping his forehead on a magical gust of wind. The red gleam was gone. Taking his chance, Arthur plunged forward and hit the Cup with his sword. The Cup fell with a loud clank, red liquid watered the floor, and the Cup rolled away.

Merlin’s mouth opened and Arthur heard roar coming out of his throat. It was a magical spell, he recognized it. A second later time returned to its state. Merlin rose up high in the air, as if suspended by a rope. Arthur heard his screaming and a shadow erupted from his chest, encircling him. The shadow dissolved and Merlin flew towards the stone floor. Arthur darted forward, catching his limp body. He held it tight and looked around.

“Emrys,” whispered Arthur, lowering the body on the ground. He kneeled near him and looked in his face. Now that the Dark Spirit was gone, there was a human being in his arms. Merlin’s face regained colour, it was sweating and thin streams of tears rolled down from his shut eyes. He was jerking in fever of pain. The former Spirit opened his eyes slightly and Arthur saw his irises were back to grayish blue colour.

“You saved me,” he cried and tears ran down faster his bloodied dirty cheeks. Arthur wiped them with his thumb and moved the lock off his forehead.

“You were as good as dead and I couldn’t let you die. This man, who arrived in Camelot. He told me you needed help,” said the King softly, repeating his words about the messenger. Merlin laughed in relief.

“Lancelot! He made it. He did it.”

“Merlin, I’m afraid your friend is dead,” swallowed the King, looking at the man in his arms. Merlin’s face hardened for a second but then relaxed. His limp hand reached out to Arthur’s face. He caressed his skin and Arthur closed his eyes to enjoy every touch of a gentle hand.

When he looked at Merlin again, he saw something black streaming from the corner of his mouth. He touched it with his finger, but it wasn’t blood.

“I’m dying,” said Merlin with a nervous laugh. “I can feel it.”

“No,” mumbled the King, lifting the man’s body and pulling it closer to himself. He ruffled Merlin’s hair and grasped his fingers with another hand.

This instant Arthur felt himself flying off from Merlin’s weak body. He hit the ground painfully. As he opened his eyes, full of dust, he saw Morgause towering over him, looking enraged.

“Arthur Pendragon, you will pay for this!” she roared at him. The sorceress looked a mess. Her hair was tangled, her gown ripped. There was a sword in her elegant hand and she had a tight grip on it. “I will end your life, if this useless piece of a shadow couldn’t do it.”

Morgause raised her sword and Arthur stared at her, unable to move away. She has lowered her hands, but the sword never met Arthur’s heart. Instead he saw a blade puncture through the woman’s body. Merlin’s head poked from behind her shoulder as he held her in his arms.

“Have you forgotten, Morgause, what kind of a sword I possess? Forged in a dragon’s breath. It can kill mortals and immortals. And most certainly a High Priestess,” he turned the sword inside the woman’s body. She groaned in pain. Morgause gasped one last time and when Merlin pulled his sword out, she fell on the ground without breath.

“Over,” he whispered and collapsed on the floor.

***

A week passed since their visit to Ismere. Arthur sent a large group of knights and soldiers to rid the place of hostile warriors. He could hardly concentrate on Court matters, while his mind kept returning to two people he treasured most. Morgana has nearly recovered after the fight in the vault and was spending a great deal of time in her chambers, drinking potions, or wandering around the castle for some exercise. Arthur didn’t fear much for her state as she proved to be a strong woman with good health.

His concern was for another person. Merlin was in Gaius’s chambers, slowly regaining his strength from the Death’s claws even if he was the Death himself. He was sleeping mostly and when awake he could hardly say a word. His sleeping was feverish and agitated but with every day Gaius supposed his improvement.

Arthur walked up the stairs and entered the physician's quarters, breathing in a strong herbal scent. Gaius was stirring some potion in a small cauldron.

“Arthur,” he greeted him in a fatherly manner, pausing his work.

“Gaius. I came to see Merlin. How is he?” asked the King, folding his arms and stepping inside the room.

“Much better, Sire. He is recovering.”

“Yes, you said this before.”

“Don’t worry, Arthur. In a few days he will be up and about. The enchantment, that held him bound, was strong, but his magic managed to prevent his dying. He is powerful. More powerful than anyone I’ve ever seen,” confessed Gaius. Arthur looked at him thoughtfully, remembering the druids’ prophecy. He passed by his physician and entered a tiny chamber attached to the main room.

Merlin was lying in a bed, covered with a thin blanket up to his chin. He was sleeping and Arthur was glad to see that he was calm. The King approached the bed slowly and sat next to it. His gaze studied Merlin’s face, as it did days before since his arrival. He couldn’t get enough of how peaceful, how human the former Spirit looked now. His black silken clothes was folded carefully and left on a small table in the corner of the room. A plain shirt was poking out of the blanket, now covering the man’s shoulders.

Merlin’s eyes opened slowly and his gaze focused on Arthur.

“Hello,” said Arthur softly and silently, looking at the man. Merlin smiled back and it was a smile of a well slept man.

“Hi,” he replied hoarsely. Coughing erupted from his chest and Arthur took his hand gently for support. When coughing calmed down, Merlin looked at his saviour with great tenderness. “Thank you. For everything.”

“It’s nothing.”

“No, I’m serious. I have done so much bad, killed so many people, and yet, you brought me in Camelot willingly, you helped me recover.”

“Strictly speaking, it’s Gaius who helped you recover,” protested Arthur and a playful smile touched his lips. Merlin shook his head.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Arthur kept smiling. He gently rubbed Merlin’s hand with his fingers and pressed his lips to it. It felt soft and warm. He closed his eyes.

“I never told you,” said Merlin distantly, turning his head. Arthur arched his brow. “About Morgause capturing me.”

“You don’t have to,” said Arthur with a light shake of his head, but Merlin pressed his lips and continued.

“I was ten then. I already knew that there were hardly any limits to my magic. I learnt using it before I could speak and walk. I still remember my parents worried about my powers. And then she came one day. Slaughtered most of the villagers, some managed to run away and hide. Lancelot was one of them.”

Now that Arthur knew who Lancelot was, he didn’t have to interrupt the speech with his questions.

“She took me. She was powerful as well and I could hardly resist her magic. She captured me, manipulated my powers. Made me sacrifice my blood for the Cup and thus created the Curse.”

“Why did she do it?”

“She never fully explained. I knew she heard of a prophecy and she wanted to prevent me from coming to Camelot. She ensured my enslavement, made me slaughter your people and bring terror to your lands. She never sought credit, she just enjoyed me telling her about all those poor dead. I was brought up in her castle, raised on bloodlust and coldness. But this part is gone now.”

He sighed and Arthur noticed crystal clear tears appearing in his eyes. He shushed the man on the bed and leaned in to press his lips to Merlin’s. Their kiss, so gentle and almost ethereal, made Arthur’s heart beat faster. He relished in moving his lips over Merlin’s, he took joy in their softness and sweetness, light herbal scent felt in his mouth now.

When they broke apart, Merlin was no longer crying. His eyes twinkled with pleasure and happiness. Arthur leaned over the man to plant another kiss on his mouth.

“I will protect you till the end,” he whispered his promise, which he once gave to Morgana. Merlin laughed light-heartedly, lifting his yet weak body up to get from this kiss all that he could.

 

**Author's Note:**

> For any questions, typo reports and suggestions, please contact me on [Tumblr](http://accio-toffy.tumblr.com/)


End file.
